


Team Monday

by Mouse9



Series: Cherries and Ginger [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bodily Fluids, F/M, bad day, fic for the really crappy Tuesday, harrassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 16:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21496957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mouse9/pseuds/Mouse9
Summary: For all the Sherlollians that had an utter crap day otherwise known as Monday: Part Two.Molly has an absolutely horrid, no good, bad day.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Series: Cherries and Ginger [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1470830
Comments: 16
Kudos: 105





	Team Monday

Murphy’s Law dictates: “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.”  
There was also a very famous orange American cat who had the famous quote “I hate Mondays”  
Except. It wasn’t a Monday, it was a Tuesday, which made everything that happened to Molly all the worse.  
It didn't begin horrible. Her alarm went off when it was supposed to, there was hot water.  
She found a hole in the crotch of her trousers but she thought nothing of it, just put them to the side to look at when she returned home that evening to see if they could be mended.  
She made coffee and put it into her travel mug in preparation to leave.  
That’s when it all began.  
Molly slid her foot into a shoe and shouted in disgust as her toes slid against something wet and slimy.  
“Toby!” Molly shouted as she dumped a hairball out of the shoe.  
“Dammit.”  
The mug and bag went onto the table as she hobbled back to her bedroom to get a fresh pair of socks and different shoes.  
Now dressed and coat halfway on, she ran back through the flat, stopping only to grab her bag as she rushed out the door.  
She made it to the train- just barely- losing her balance as the train began to move before she’d even found a seat or could brace herself.  
It was then that she realized her coffee was still sitting on the table.  
Right next to her keys. 

The day didn’t get any better.  
Stepping off the lift to the basement, a hurried maintenance worker ran into her, spilling his coffee over the front of her jumper. As she stood there in shock, the hot liquid seeping into the fabric, he yelled at her to watch where she was going before the lift doors closed.  
Because she’d taken her spare jumper home several weeks before to be laundered and had forgotten to bring it back, Molly didn’t have a jumper to change in to. The soiled jumper went into the locker. She would have to make it through the day with only the orange blouse that now had a horrid brown stain right over her left breast and her lab coat which, thankfully, covered the stain. She would just have to suffer from the cool temperatures of the Morgue. 

It was official.  
This was the worst day in recorded history.  
She just wanted to go home.  
Not wanting to fight the rush of people upstairs in the canteen, not excluding the fact that she was more than a little nervous that something back could happen; like drowning in the soup of the day, Molly chose to grab something from vending.  
The machine took her last coins and promptly stopped working. As she tried futilely to at least get her money back, Dr. Henley, the newest cardiac surgeon stormed from the life with her flock of interns trailing behind her.  
Cornering Molly by the vending machines, she let loose a torrent of screaming unprofessional tirade about rushed lab work and a man's life and the general incompetence of the lab.  
Molly, who’d been stunned silent at the surprise attack, couldn’t even begin to formulate a rejoinder to Henley’s accusations when the surgeon volleyed her last missile.  
“Perhaps if you dedicated the same energy to actual important lab duties as you are trying to get the bag of crisps from vending, I wouldn’t have to wait for a result that could determine whether a man lives or dies. I plan on making a complaint to the Board!”  
With that, she and the now tittering interns were gone leaving Molly shaking and angry and near tears.  
There hadn’t been any rush orders in the lab when she’d left. If one had come down in the seven minutes it had taken to walk to vending and fight with the machine, there was no way it would have been anywhere near finished in the short time it took for Henley to place the rush order and then hurry down to complain about the length of time it was taking.  
Defeated, she headed back to the lab to explain to a group of confused techs the importance of working the Rush requests first and to kindly get those out as soon as possible.  
Then, lunch forgotten- there wasn’t enough time to pop up to the canteen to get something- she trudged down to the lower basement to oversee a resident's first autopsy. 

The autopsy did not go well.  
Both eager and nervous, the fresh faced resident, wanting to show off, didn’t bother to follow protocol and read the signs of the body on the table. The body that had been out of the cooler for more than an hour and was showing signs of internal gas build up.  
She’s been lucky enough to have her faceplate on before the eager resident made the first incision.  
Gasses plus pressure plus a small space to pass through; it was like popping a balloon.  
Liquids, bile and stomach contents exploded from the body, coating the both of them in foul smalling, warm hazardous human material.  
Molly stood there for a moment, at first too stunned to move, then just adding it to the worst day ever.  
The resident, having been initiated, promptly added to the hazardous material by ripping off the face mask and vomiting on to the floor.  
Even under a gown, her clothing was a casualty of war and incinerated.  
Three showers, brushing the teeth until her gums bleed and gargling with a bottle of mouthwash later, Molly sat in her office, a set of too large surgical scrubs covering her. Because of course, they had no clean small or mediums.  
Her hair was damp and hanging loose past her shoulder as she hunched miserably in her chair.  
She wasn’t leaving this room until her shift had ended. No calls, no visitors, nothing.  
She was barely holding it together and one more little thing would send her round the bend. 

The door to the office burst open, slamming against the wall with a crack and Sherlock strode in.  
“There you are. I need to see the body of George Laramie, a man’s life may depend on…”  
He trailed off, nose wrinkling in disgust.  
“It smells of bile in here.”  
His focus turned to Molly, taking in everything at a glance. A snicker escaped him.  
Molly’s eyes filled with tears as the entirety of the day washed over her. Sherlock went from amused to horrified in a heartbeat.  
“Oh no. No, don’t.” Shutting the office door, he hurried to where she sat, crouching down and reaching out to her, hands on her shoulders.  
“Don’t, don’t cry. You know I’ve no idea what to do when you cry.,”  
Desperately, he cradled her face, thumbs swiping over tear-stained cheeks.  
“What happened?” he asked, eyes wide and searching. His expression of concern broke the last barrier.  
A sob escaped her and she fell against him, arms wrapped around his neck, face against his shoulder. With choked, heaving breaths, she told him about the entirely of her day; from the hairball in her shoe to the gastric explosion of what she now knew to be Mr George Laramie.  
Sherlock knelt there, arms around her tightly, letting her wet his coat and tell her story, offering nothing but his strength and his comforting arms.  
“It seems the cook is guilty,” he said after she’d finished her story and was now just sniffling and trying to catch her breath, resting her head against his shoulder. “The brother will be relieved.”  
Extricate himself from her, he stood up. Taking off his coat, he wrapped it around Molly’s frame. Her hands slid easily into the sleeves and tugged it tight around her.  
“Thank you, but it isn’t necessary.” She began.  
“It is quite necessary.” he interrupted. “They took everything you were wearing to burn and while that scrub shirt is large on you, it’s cooler down here and therefore obvious that you have on no underthings. It’s distracting.”  
Her cheeks flamed as she held the lapels of the coat closed tighter around her.  
“Oh for…”  
The door opened again and they both turned as Mike poked his head in.  
“Oh good, you’re both here.” Stepping in further, he closed the door behind him.  
“You.” he pointed at Molly. “Go home. You.”  
He pointed his Sherlock. “Make sure she gets there.”  
“I…” she began but Mike spoke over her.  
“Protocol to call in the head of the department, that’s me, when a hazardous accident occurs. The resident has been sent home and a letter to his head has been sent.” His hand held the door open and he took in Molly’s bedraggled condition.  
“ Also I heard about Henley’s grandstanding. You’ll be interested to know that order didn’t come down until twenty minutes after her tantrum because of her intern forgot to enter it in. Several of the techs in the lab witnessed Henley’s meltdown and are willing to attest to it so I'll Be sending a letter to the Board regarding her conduct.”  
Molly let out a breath. “Thank you, Mike.”  
He smiled sympathetically. “Go home, Molly. Relax and start fresh tomorrow.”  
Sherlock tugged her up and wrapped an arm around her and, with a nod towards Mike, lead her from the office.  
They stopped long enough to pick up her jacket, bag and soiled jumper before heading to the lift.  
Molly knew she looked a fright: clad in ill-fitting scrubs, wearing an oversized greatcoat, hair down, paper slippers on her feet, yet Sherlock didn’t say a word as he led her out of the hospital and onto the street where he flagged down a taxi. 

Once they were bundled in, and he told the driver where they were going, he pulled her to his side, settling a comforting arm over her shoulder. Taking advantage, she snuggled close against him, the scent of his cologne and the warmth and weight of the greatcoat soothing her.  
“My keys are on my counter. Inside my flat,” she muttered, eyes closing.  
“I have mine,” he answered, tucking her in closer to him. “We’ll get you home and I’ll order takeaway. I’ll even watch your ridiculous movies without saying a word.”  
Molly sighed happily. Her day may have started out utterly horrible, no good and extremely bad, but if Sherlock was going to take her home and take care of her, the rest of the day was suddenly looking up.


End file.
